The Defenders

CHAPTER 5

One Last Torpedo

On the morning of Heptad third, Brim was aloft in Starfury D1923 with Moulding on his wing, orbiting five hundred c'lenyts off Melia, the planet of Commerce. Their job—along with thirty other Starfuries positioned along an arc stretching nearly half a light-year—was to protect a large supply convoy of HypoLight spaceships going from Melia to Proteus.

The Triad was just disappearing behind the planet when the two Imperials completed another spinward leg of their assigned patrol area. At the surface, the planet's whole boreal hemisphere soaked beneath a heavy layer of cloud that flashed malignantly here and there with wicked-looking bursts of lightning. Thousands of irals above, a flight of Defiants appeared to skid across the planet's multicolored disk making for FleetPort 28 in synchronous orbit above the opposite hemisphere.

As Moulding kept station on the outside, Brim eased into a right turn, grimacing wryly behind the mask of his battlesuit. It was difficult, he considered soberly— damn difficult—to continually let the Leaguers bring the war to him. Sometimes, he wished he commanded normal Starfuries with their large crew and intragalactic range. Now, there were ships that could take the war to the enemy! This new kind of remote-controlled, defensive patrolling at the beck and call of some distant BKAEW technician was sometimes repugnant to him—and to a lot of the other Helmsmen who dearly wanted to wade in and show the Leaguer bastards what a real fight was all about.

He shook his head and scanned the starry darkness around him. Eventually, he thought.

Eventually, they'd be on the offensive again. And this time, no Treaty of Garak would save the Tyrant to begin still another round of killing....

With effort, he forced his mind back to reality. Plenty of time to plan the future once he'd helped win it away from the Leaguers. But for the duration, whole fleets of zukeed bastards were still out there waiting. He could feel their presence—and their plans for after the war were totally unlike his own. At all...

While he searched the darkness around him, out on the tips of his Starfury's pontoons, tiny antennas sensed incoming radiation from another ship. They relayed their captured data to the Starfury's APW-11 proximity warning system, and presently, a yellow area began to blink on Brim's threats panel, slowly at first, then with increasing frequency as the stranger approached. "We've got company," he said calmly into the short-range COMM system as he extended his turn into a full circle.

"I've noticed," Moulding replied. "They should be coming from spinward."

"Hang on a moment, Toby," Brim interrupted tensely, "I think I can see them." Out ahead, two distant graviton plumes were perfectly silhouetted against the dark undercast. "Orange-Yellow and crossing.... Just above the horizon...."

"Daresay," Moulding answered. "I see the bastards, too— sneaking in for a little innocent mayhem, one supposes."

Brim narrowed his eyes and sounded action stations while his ship raced silently and undetected through the utter darkness of space. But as airtight doors slammed and the bridge filled with excited voices, the thrill he normally felt at the beginning of combat was—well—missing, somehow. He felt tired; seemed like he'd been tired for weeks. He shrugged mentally. Like millions of Imperials before him, he had a job to do for his Empire—and this one was a long way from over. Taking a deep breath, he resignedly pushed his thrust dampers to the stop and curved in toward the two unsuspecting Leaguers. A steep bank and a hard pull brought him in at their Orange-Yellow and closing rapidly.

Scant heartbeats later, he was above and behind two GH 262-Es, in perfect position to attack.

No time for philosophy now—only actions and reflexes. He ordered the disrupters energized and gave Goreman, the Gunnery Officer, permission to fire when he was ready.

It didn't take long at all. At only medium range, their initial salvo of disruptor fire sparkled all around the starboard "wing" of the rearmost Gorn-Hoff, instantly silencing its two aft-firing turrets. In the corner of his eye, Brim saw the surprised leader frantically peel off and claw upward toward free space.

Goreman quickly boosted off another short burst. This time, the Gorn-Hoff shot out a long, thin streamer of gravitons, followed by a dazzling plume of radiation fire. Suddenly, the chevron-shaped killer ship flipped onto its back and spiraled toward the stormy undercast, burning furiously.

"My compliments," Moulding radioed. "That puts paid to one Leaguer this morning."

"Thanks..." Brim answered. "Too bad his zukeed friend over there at Purple-Blue doesn't share your enthusiasm." Off to the port, the second Gorn-Hoff was streaking out of the darkness back toward their flight level. While he watched, the enemy starship rolled into a vertical bank, then hurtled around to come at them from behind.

Instinctively, he pivoted his Starfury to counter the threat, its spaceframe creaking and groaning with the strain. But the surprised Helmsman of the Gorn-Hoff overshot, and Brim rolled immediately onto his tail. A moment later, Goreman got off a long burst that flickered just behind the Gorn-Hoff's armored bridge—again with no apparent effect.

Brim lined up for a second shot, but this time, the Leaguer countered with a tremendous fusillade from its rear turrets that sparkled and hammered at the Starfury's armor. Then its Helmsman rolled and dived out of the way, streaking vertically for the surface in an attempt to throw off Brim's aiming devices against the ground clutter. The Carescrian followed, heedless of danger as he was during the days when he piloted ore barges. Soon, the Starfury's hullmetal skin was glowing cherry-white from atmospheric heating, and the temperature on the bridge had began to climb precipitously. No starship was designed to survive in these temperatures; the deep cold of outer space was their natural element, and normal landfalls were made gradually, to keep reentry heat within manageable ranges. Grinding his teeth, Brim turned down his battlesuit temperature and continued the dive. This chase would go to the ship with the best streamlining—and he was betting everything on his Starfury. Mitchell Trophy racers, on which Mark Valerian had based his designs, had been beautifully shaped to get them in and out of the atmosphere as rapidly as possible. That early design decision was going to count in the next few moments, or he would know the reason why.

And even as he made his prediction, the Leaguer—now glowing incandescently—suddenly pulled out and headed directly for one of the nearby storm cells. Enemy or no, the Helmsman had guts, at least in Brim's estimation. Temperatures on that flight bridge must long ago have reached the melting point of some metals. With a nod of grudging appreciation, he followed around in a wide curve toward the roiling, flickering clouds.

Moments later—only a few thousand irals above the surface—Brim found himself bumping violently through swirling turbulence, ram, and hailstones, but he held his course grimly while the proximity indicator guided him along the Leaguer's path. Goreman didn't need to see the Gorn-Hoff; the forward heat scanners were all that was necessary to aim. He began firing off short bursts into the murk as Brim veered through the sky, tracking the Leaguer as if its Helmsman were flying both starships. Presently, the two ships erupted back into the evening sky. Brim's eyes adjusting only in time to see the Gorn-Hoff send out a stream of gravitons and reverse course back into the cloud—just as if it were in the midst of some primitive fight between two old atmospheric flyers.

Once more, Brim careened after him into the roiling mists, jolting violently in a thousand directions as he coursed through the frantic blackness. Lightning crashed explosively near his starboard pontoon. Battling desperately to approximate the enemy Helmsman's course, he ground his teeth in feverish concentration on his instruments. A moment later, the proximity indicator's yellow eye blinked again. Reflexively Goreman fired a blind, fan-shaped salvo into the gloom—then they were once more in clear air. Ahead, the Gorn-Hoff was now trailing a thread of white vapor—that stopped abruptly as it turned again, this time so tightly that the two starships abruptly switched position.

Now, the deadly Gorn-Hoff was in the tail position, and it was Brim's turn for trouble.

Shimmering bolts of energy flashed past his Hyperscreens. The unfamiliar thunder of disrupters blasted his ears. And Moulding was nowhere in sight! He must have become separated in the cloud.

Heart in his throat. Brim simultaneously jammed the gravs wide open, hauled the helm hard right, and slammed the steering engine to starboard. R6595 rolled precipitously onto its back in the beginning of a split-S maneuver—but instead of arcing over into a dive, Brim held the inverted starship on course, alternately kicking his helm and swerving violently from side to side.

The enemy pilot also whipped his Gorn-Hoff inverted—but in the excitement of the chase, he actually completed his maneuver and continued through into another power dive.

One long heartbeat later, Brim completed his own split-S— now carefully calculated to bring him out of its diving half loop at a point in space directly behind his opponent's tail, where his disrupters could do the most damage. Within moments, the Starfury was in position, and Goreman fired from no more than 150 irals.

This time, bits and pieces flew from the fleeing Gorn-Hoff. It slowed and a large panel fell into down position. Somehow the Leaguer Helmsman managed to keep his ship in the air....

From years of habit, Brim moved in close to finish the job. The Gorn-Hoff was still weaving desperately, but not so nimbly as before. In the background, he could hear Goreman preparing his disrupters... .

Suddenly, he shook his head angrily. "Enough death," he whispered, grimacing to himself. "Don't shoot!" he ordered. That Gorn-Hoff was going nowhere. It would soon either land, or disintegrate in the air. Either way, it and its crew were out of the war.

Instead, he coasted alongside the stricken starship. It surprised him that he had no feeling at all for the Leaguers— neither hate nor compassion. His emotions were numb. Glancing across into the bridge, he saw one of Triannic's elite Controllers in a black battlesuit at the controls. From a transparent helmet, the Leaguer gazed warily back, waiting. His hair was so blond, it appeared almost white.

Brim raised a fist with his thumb down in the universal sign of "Get out of the sky."

The Gorn-Hoff's Helmsman clearly understood. He hesitated for only a moment, saluted across the few hundred irals that separated the two starships, then gingerly swung off toward the surface.

With a casual glance backward, Brim lifted his Starfury's nose into a gentle climb and took up a heading back to his assigned station. The Leaguers were on their own now.

Only clicks later his proximity alarms went off again, followed almost immediately by the thunder of disruptor fire. As Goreman whirled his turrets sternward, R6595 shuddered convulsively, and Brim was nearly knocked senseless against his seat restraints when a near miss shattered the overhead Hyperscreens in a stunning explosion and filled the bridge with whirling crystal shards. Heart pounding in his throat, he rolled instinctively right and glanced aft, There was the Gorn-Hoff, its control panel still hanging in the slipstream, its disrupters pounding away at him as if their combat had never ended.

Brim saw red. "Get the bastard!" he growled deep in his throat, then horsed the Starfury around in a tight turn that the Gorn-Hoff's riddled spaceframe could never again possibly match. As Goreman fired. Brim closed to within a few hundred irals of the Leaguer's swept-back hull. With icy precision, he skidded slightly to one side while the Starfury's powerful disrupters fired a long, deafening salvo at the bridge area from so close it was impossible to miss. The shattered Gorn-Hoff faltered in midflight as if smashed by some giant hammer, and debris bounced noisily against the Starfury's Hyperscreens.

Suddenly, the Gorn-Hoff nosed over and hurdled down toward the undercast. Brim followed in hot pursuit, wind thundering through the shattered overhead Hyperscreens as R6595 plunged completely through the clouds, matching the Gorn-Hoff's headlong dive as if the two starships were now physically attached.

Perilously low, the enemy Helmsman suddenly pulled up into a turn—but this time, his crippled Gorn-Hoff could no longer gain altitude. Grinding his teeth, Brim closed in with relentless determination.

Goreman launched off salvo after salvo until suddenly brilliant red and yellow flames vomited back over the Gorn-Hoff's "wings," highlighting the red daggers painted at the tips.

Now trailing thick clouds of black oily smoke, the Leaguer faltered once more, stalled vertically, then cartwheeled, spinning lazily to port like a blazing leaf. Incredibly, it leveled off at the last possible moment loosing a small flurry of lifeglobes in its wake before it skimmed shakily along a rocky hillside, then sank to the ground at high speed, blossoming at last into a giant puffball of lurid flame and starship parts.

Brim circled the rising column of smoke while the fire—and his anger—burned themselves out together. As the lifeglobes bounced to the surface, he thought about the other Helmsman: singularly brave and capable, but programmed to a totally different set of moral rules. And he'd known that. He shook his head angrily. What a fool he had been! After years of dealing with Leaguers, he, an Imperial, had allowed himself to deal with those rules on Imperial terms—and he had prevailed. But only just. A scant few clicks more and.... He shivered. Never again would he risk a ship and crew by showing mercy to Leaguers. People like that didn't want mercy because they didn't really understand what it was.

After long moments of contemplation, he called in Search and Rescue crews—the prisoners would have valuable information— climbed back through the overcast into bright morning sunlight, and once more set course for his assigned station. Moulding would be waiting, and he was anxious to claim both Gorn-Hoff prizes for the ship. One glance at his KA'PPA display told him that similar battles were taking place all around the Triad. True to Sodeskayan predictions, the war had abruptly become very serious in the neighborhood of Avalon.

For the next two Standard Weeks, the Imperials guarded their five planets 'round the clock while Nergol Triannic's Generals drilled the huge army of jackbooted Controllers, land crawlers, and siege engines they had assembled on the nearby planets of occupied Effer'wyck. Yet despite all conjecture—Imperial as well as Leaguer—they only drilled. The promised invasion failed to come.

Moreover, intelligence data from Sodeskaya quoted the League Emperor as stating that his decision as to whether the operation should take place during the Standard Month of Nonad or be delayed until next Pentad would be made after his Attack Forces had carried out more powerful forays against the Avalonian Home Planets. If these had caused "significant damage," he would invade.

Ursis's critique from Sodeskaya: Triannic had become a frustrated Emperor—to his own considerable distress. The present inactivity of his huge land forces was a constant drain on his resources that could not continue indefinitely. And for once, he had apparently lost his usual vision about how to bring his actions to a conclusion.

It was also fairly clear he had diminished confidence in Admiral Hoth Orgoth's claims that all-out war from space could provide the answer. Three of his most trusted advisers had recently told him in secret that such an offensive could take as much as two Standard Years. His strategic program for the present, then, was to continue unrestricted space warfare against Avalon in preparation for possible land operations and conceivably begin an actual invasion during the Standard Month of Nonad—if conditions and preparation were all satisfactory. Otherwise, he would probably postpone the invasion until the following year.

It was good news for the hard-pressed Imperials. At least the immediate threat of invasion had become more remote. But they were a long way from declaring their beloved Triad secure, and they knew it.

Meanwhile, fighting around the five planets grew more intense daily until in mid-month a terrific series of raids commenced during which the Leaguers suddenly abandoned their attacks on Imperial shipping and commenced picking targets seemingly at random among the five planets themselves— while carefully avoiding Avalon City proper.

These raids cost the Leaguers dearly, for attacks against ground targets necessitated flying a great deal closer to the Imperial FleetPort systems. Indeed, on the first day of the revised strategy, thirty-eight of the attacking starships were confirmed destroyed and forty-six claimed damaged. At the same time, however, thirty-two Imperial killer ships were also destroyed—serious losses of twenty-three full crews listed as missing or dead plus nearly half the crew members of a Defiant and two more Starfuries. Brim's starships suffered their own damage during the day-long mayhem, and as the second morning began in orbit over Avalon, so many of them were under repair that he found himself "grounded."

No sooner had he reported in as down for at least a day than a directive arrived from the Admiralty ordering him to the surface immediately to attend one of Onrad's War Cabinet meetings in place of Gallsworthy, while the latter participated in a shipping conference on Helios. Aram, whose Defiant was also laid up, accompanied him.

"No rest for the weary, I suppose, Cap'm," Barbousse said as the three strode briskly across the transparent mooring tube to the shuttle.

Brim laughed and looked out through the transparent walls at the curve of the planet, just taking shape as a slim arc of light hundreds of c'lenyts to lightward. Flashes of disrupter fire punctuated nearby space, indicating that the Leaguers' new offensive continued without letup. ''Probably more true for you.

Chief, than me," he said, winking at Aram. "At least we get to do something a little bit different—while you shovel mountains of admin trivia."

The ruddy-feathered A'zurnian nodded emphatically. "I think I'd rather face a whole squadron of Leaguers," he said in feigned gravity.

Barbousse chuckled. "Don't you fret about me, gentlemen," he said. "I've got a mob of ratin's to do the real borin' stuff. But it does bring an idea to mind, beggin' the Cap'm's pardon."

"What's that, Chief?" Brim asked.

"Well sirs," the big rating said, "when we finally do win the war, I think it might be a fittin'

punishment to make those bigwig Leaguer brassheads gather up all the admin stuff they've caused an' put it in some sort of orderly filin' system. Now talk about a livin' death...."

Aram broke into gales of featherly laughter while Brim guffawed and slapped the big man on his broad back. "Chief," he said, "we'll take that one up with the Admiralty this afternoon. Who knows, with a threat like that, they might simply give the whole thing up and go back home. I know I would."

"Meanwhile, Cap'm," Barbousse said, returning to his accustomed seriousness as they reached the entrance to the brow, "I'll have everythin' ready for your signature when you get back." He saluted.

"Careful down there, if you will, sir," he said. "No tellin' what them CIGAs are liable to do now that things aren't goin' their way anymore."

"I'll keep an eye out, Chief," Brim promised, returning the salute, then motioning his grip-all into trail mode, he followed Aram into the brow.

True to Barbousse's premonition, CIGAs were out in force along Brim's route from Lake Mersin to the Admiralty, today protesting Attack Commands' fifth successful assault on the League's invasion buildup in Effer'wyck. The Imperial raiders had damaged a critical cable bridge (seriously hindering assembly of invasion landing craft) and destroyed a large number of attack ships on the ground.

Placards carried by the League sympathizers bore shopworn messages blaming Imperial "aggression" for causing the present hostilities, and the carriers themselves appeared to be just as confident of their cause as ever. But a closer look revealed that their ranks were noticeably thinner than only a month previously—and a nearby counterdemonstration loomed like an ominous storm nearly ready to break over their heads. Clearly, some sort of tide was beginning to turn. Brim hoped there was still time....

At the Admiralty, the two officers sat quietly in the cabinet meeting while Hagbut continued to predict an invasion. As the General and other high-ranking members of the Imperial government debated the state of affairs, a wall-sized situation board behind him showed BKAEW-based reports beginning to arrive indicating large raids were again building up over Effer'wyck.

Aram shook his head wearily as more and more Leaguers headed their way. "I feel guilty sitting here," he whispered to Brim, "while our people are out there risking their necks."

Brim nodded. "I know," he whispered back. "I feel that way every time you people go off without me. But we can't fight every battle."

"I'm so bloody tired," Aram said wryly, "it feels as if I've damn well tried."

"Yeah," Brim agreed with a grin, "I know what that feels like, too...."

At the conclusion of the Cabinet meeting—during which Brim and Aram were asked to testify on three separate occasions—General Harry Drummond, Commander of the Home Fleet, met them in the lobby of the auditorium. "Mornin', gents," he said in the sham accent he used years ago when he and Brim first met during the Mitchell Trophy races. "Cap'm Brim, sir," he asked, " 'ave you learned yet to pronounce m' name?"

" 'Iggins, General," Brim chuckled. " 'Ow's that?"

"Brim," the General said, extending his hand warmly, "you may just amount to something yet."

"I try," Brim said, shaking the man's hand.

"True enough," the General said with a huge grin, "you are one of the most trying persons I've encountered yet."

While Brim groaned, Drummond extended his hand to Aram. "And you must be Aram of Nahshon," he said.

Aram laughed and shook the General's hand. "One of these days, General," he laughed, "I may die these ruddy feathers blue."

Drummond raised an eyebrow. "Then you'll really stand out in a crowd," he said.

"You've got that right, General," Aram said with a grin, "but at least nobody'll know me."

"A point well taken, young man," Drummond chuckled. "I'll have to keep my eye on you." Then he turned to Brim. "Wilf," he said, "we need to discuss one of those 'need-to-know' things. Are you free for a metacycle or so?"

"Of course, General," Brim replied. "Aram, meet you in the wardroom?"

"When you're ready, Captain," the A'zurnian said, "General, I'm proud to have met you."

Drummond paused and smiled seriously for a moment. "I'm rather proud to have finally met you in person, Aram. Not too many of us get to go after a battleship with just a destroyer." Hatless, he saluted, then, motioning Brim to follow, he led the way along a high-ceilinged marble corridor to a bank of lifts guarded by two armed sentries. There he produced his personal ID card and nodded toward the Carescrian. "I've arranged Blue clearance for Captain Brim," he said. "Code nineteen, four fifty-seven A."

"Nineteen four fifty-seven A," the guard repeated, consulting a small logic scriber, he ticked off an entry, checked Brim's ID, and opened the lift.

Somehow, Brim felt little surprise when the car began to descend at high speed, boring its way through what seemed like thousands of irals of earth before it came to a gentle stop deep beneath the Admiralty.

"Abysmal place," Drummond quipped as the doors opened to another set of armed guards.

Brim groaned again. "Low-down description if I ever heard one, General," he whispered as the guards checked their IDs once more.

Drummond grinned, punching Brim lightly on the forearm. "I admit it, Wilf," he said, striding across the small lobby to a door with no latching mechanism. "But I'll make up for it in here." He touched his ID to the center of the panel and the massive door slid aside. Inside was a sparsely furnished living room occupied by a single, unarmed Sergeant. "How's our guest?" Drummond asked.

The Sergeant jumped to attention. He was a huge man, almost as large as Barbousse, and looked as if he could take care of himself in any situation, with or without weapons. "Alive, General," he said, smiling grimly, "but certainly not by my wishes."

"Nor by mine," Drummond growled. "But he's valuable, so we'll keep him awhile longer. Besides, I think the Captain here will want to meet him for at least two reasons."

"Yes, sir. General," the Sergeant said, "I'll wake him." He strode to the inner door.

Brim frowned. "Somebody I'll want to meet, General?"

Drummond smiled and raised a finger. "Let's see if you remember him," he said. "You described him quite well in your report."

"My...?"

Before Brim could finish, the Sergeant opened the door. "All right, Von Oster," he said.

"Someone to see you."

Moments later, a tall, blond man appeared at the door dressed in a bright yellow jump suit. Brim had seen prisoners of war before—that explained the yellow uniform; the man was clearly a captured Leaguer. But where had they met? Fluvanna? He'd certainly attended his share of parties and masques at the Fluvannian Palace prior to the outbreak of open hostilities. Perhaps even during the years he raced for the Mitchell Trophy. He'd certainly met enough Leaguers in those days.... Then it came to him.

"Melia!" he exclaimed, nodding to the Leaguer. "Rogvor Melia nagvor gorbost sugar. Vorgost?" he asked in perfect Vertrucht.

"Dovinc nagvor Melia," the Leaguer answered angrily. "And you need not speak in the Father Tongue, Imperial. I am capable of conversation in your own bastard Avalonian."

"I'd forgotten you spoke their language, Wilf," Drummond said, "Where did you pick up that particular talent?"

Brim smiled. "In Carescria," he said. "We ore-barge Helmsmen dealt with Leaguers all the time before the war. Triannic was one of our biggest customers."

"A lot of us remember that," Drummond said. "A little before Praefect Dorner's time," he said, nodding toward the Leaguer. "I assume you two recognize each other."

"Says he was shot down over Melia on the nineteenth," Brim replied. "I got two Gorn-Hoffs that day, and...." He pursued his lips and stared at the Leaguer. "The second Helmsman had blond hair like that."

"Foolish Imperial," Dorner spit with contempt. "If that was you, your cowardice nearly did you in. I all but had you."

Brim ground his teeth. "Cowardice?" he demanded. "Dorner, I gave you a chance to save your life and the lives of your crew. And you tried to shoot me."

"Well of course," the Leaguer said as if he were talking to a retarded child. "Isn't that what this is all about. Killing?" He laughed. "If you had any backbone at all, you'd be a rather good warrior, er... I didn't catch your name."

"Brim," the Carescrian said.

At that, the Leaguer narrowed his eyes. "Did you say Brim?" he asked with a new look on his face.

"That's right, Dorner," Brim said.

The Leaguer stared for a moment as if he were surprised. "Wilf Brim of the Mitchell Trophy?" he asked.

"I raced," Brim replied.

"So," the Leaguer said, "I believe, then, that you know my Commander well." He laughed sardonically. "From the asinine questions your Imperial colleagues have asked me, I already extrapolate that my crewmen have talked too much. Therefore, it will come as no surprise to your General Drummond when I tell you that my Commander is none other than Provost Kirsh Valentin. I assume you have heard of him; he has mentioned you on occasion."

"Me?" Brim asked. "Why?"

"He also is a fool," Dorner said with a cruel smile. "He holds you up as both the bravest and most dangerous of Imperials. But I know you for the coward you really are. You do not have the, how do you say, 'guts' to win a war."

"I had the guts to spare your life, Leaguer."

Dorner laughed. "Those kind of... guts... will reward you with defeat," he said. Then he frowned.

"Perhaps there is something alike between you and the Provost," he said. "He has lost much of his former respect because of his views on the war. Some of us are suspicious that he does not think we should be in this war at all."

This time, it was Brim's turn to laugh. "I can't imagine old Kirsh speaking out against war," he said. "If anybody were ever a first-class warrior, it's him."

"Perhaps," the Leaguer said, "but that is not how the, er, 'scuttlebutt' goes." He laughed. "And now, gentlemen," he said, "you have had your little gloat, and I shall provide no more new information—at least not unless I am drugged."

"The only drug you'll get is the minimum TimeWeed you need to stay alive, Leaguer," Drummond said through clenched teeth. "You have given us more information than you know. We figured Brim's presence would make you talk, and it did."

"But you learned nothing new," the Leaguer gloated.

"On the contrary," Drummond said with a little smile. "You see, Von Oster, you were the only survivor; the rest of your crew died on impact in their defective lifeglobes." With that, he turned to the Sergeant. "He's ready for camp, now, Nelson. See he's on his way without further delay."

"I'll take care of it, General," the big man said.

Nodding, Drummond led the way from the room.

Later, on his way to meet Aram in the Admiralty's Great Wardroom, Brim noticed the Emperor striding toward him across the great lobby with a small flotilla of escorting bodyguards racing in his wake.

"I say, Brim!" he called out. "Wait."

Brim stopped in his tracks and saluted, even though it was indoors. "Your Highness," he said by way of greeting.

Once more, Onrad was outfitted in full Fleet uniform. "Understand they shot you up a trifle," he said, returning Brim's salute with a little frown, then offering his hand.

Brim nodded. "A trifle," he said, grinning while he gripped the Emperor's large, soft hand.

"Anyone killed?"

"No, Your Majesty. We were awfully lucky."

"Brim," Onrad chuckled, "you're always lucky, especially when there's fighting concerned."

"You've got that right, Your Majesty," Brim replied, thinking how often he'd nearly lost his life only to find himself saved in the barest nick of time by some ridiculous stroke of luck. "Now, if I can just find out how to avoid some of that fighting...."

Onrad laughed. "When you've discovered how to do that, you can give me lessons!" he said.

"Meanwhile, I've decided to use some of your luck myself, today."

"I'll gladly share whatever I can, Your Highness," Brim laughed, "What can I do for you?"

Onrad checked his timepiece. "Turns out," he said, "I'm to meet an old friend of yours in about a metacycle. Oodam Kav Navee Beyazh, the Fluvannian Ambassador. We're scheduled to inspect one of those new BKAEW satellites." He frowned. "Poor devil," he mused. "Things aren't going well in Fluvanna right now. The Leaguers want that dominion in the worst kind of way, but with our own situation here in Avalon, we have barely the resources to aid even those planets of theirs that produce Drive crystal seeds, much less their capital." He shook his head. "That leaves Magor open to attack anytime, and there's nothing anybody can do about it except fight with what little they have and suffer. It's a bad situation,"

Brim swallowed hard. Raddisma and his unborn child were in the thick of it, then. And there was absolutely nothing he could do for them. He couldn't even acknowledge....

"So," Onrad continued, "I thought I'd take him with me out to the BKAEW site and show him that we've got some tricks up our sleeves, too. Won't win the war by itself, but every little bit helps."

"Aye, Your Highness," Brim agreed absently. He hadn't been aware the war was going that badly in the out-of-the-way dominion half a galaxy away. Since Raddisma was the Fluvannian Nabob's favorite consort, they corresponded very infrequently by necessity.

"And," Onrad continued, "when I saw you in the lobby just now, I thought, what the xaxt, without a Starfury to fly, he doesn't have much else to do—especially since Chief Barbousse handles all the admin garbage." He laughed at his own joke. "Besides that, you and the Ambassador seem to have become fast friends, so we'll both cheer him up. What do you say, Brim?"

Chuckling silently to himself—who turns down his Emperor just because he's tired?—Brim smiled gamely. "I'd love to, Your Majesty," he said. "I'll have Aram go back without...."

"Aram?" Onrad asked. "You mean that young A'zurnian you put in charge of your Defiants?"

"Aye, Your Majesty," Brim answered. "Aram of Nahshon. His ship was shot up yesterday, too."

"Well, Bully!" Onrad exclaimed. "Unfortunate that he got shot up, and all that, but a fine opportunity to cement relations between the two dominions. Bring him along, too. Nime," he said to a shapely aide, "have a staff skimmer take Captain Brim and his A'zurnian friend out to my shuttle. Brim, we'll meet you in about two metacycles." With that, he started off across the lobby.

"Aye, Your Majesty," Brim chuckled to the receding Imperial party.

"Where would you like to meet that skimmer, Captain Brim?" Mime asked, a small note recorder in her hand. She now had a smile on her face that let Brim know she understood how he felt—and a whole lot more.

"How about the front steps?"

"You'll have it," she said. "Front steps, at"—she checked her timepiece—"Brightness, two, and fifteen. All right? I'll have battlesuits for both of you waiting at the shuttle."

"Thanks, Mime," Brim said ruefully, checking his new Effer'wyckean timepiece against hers. "I can hardly wait."

Mime laughed. "I can tell you're simply dying to climb into a battlesuit, Captain. I'm sure you have very little chance to wear one otherwise."

"Yeah," Brim replied, shrugging gamely. "Just one of life's little pleasures, as they say." He winked. "Brightness, two, and fifteen," he said and started off across the lobby to find Aram. By the time he messaged Barbousse and took care of a thousand details he had planned to handle in person, it was going to be a long day indeed.

Dressed in borrowed—if elegant—Imperial battlesuits, the two Helmsmen boarded the shuttle just moments before Onrad and his party arrived. From his window in the passenger compartment, he watched five huge limousine skimmers pull past with small, self-important flags fluttering from either side of their burnished prows. Only cycles later, Ambassador Beyazh dodged his head under the low hatchway and burst into the cabin. Erect, fierce, and patriarchal in every feature, he could well be mistaken for some heroic statue come to life. He wore a white shirt with lace ruffles at the neck and cuffs, an expensive-looking gray business suit, and a crimson fez around which was tied a white turban. Great, dense eyebrows, glowering, deep-set eyes, and an ebony mustache with stilettolike ends twisted nearly vertical provided a unique visage for this entirely unique individual. Nodding to Aram, he seized Brim's hand and grinned. "How excellent to see you again, Captain," he exclaimed. "So few months have passed since I saw you off to Gimmas Haefdon, yet how terribly much has come to pass." Turning to the A'zurnian, he nodded. "You must be Aram of Nahshon, The Emperor has told me of your bravery."

"The Emperor exaggerates," Aram replied, coloring to an even deeper shade of red than he was accustomed.

"So does Aram," Brim added, "the opposite way."

Beyazh winked at Aram. "Keep up the good work, young man," he said. "And know that you are appreciated in every corner of the Empire." As Onrad entered the cabin and took a seat behind the Helmsmen, the ambassador turned to Brim. "As usual, Onrad speaks highly of your exploits, also," he said.

Brim chuckled grimly. "We're all in this thing up to the neck," he said, "mostly trying to stay alive."

"Sounds all too familiar," Beyazh said, settling into a seat across the aisle.

"How are things at home, Mr. Ambassador?" Brim asked, not daring to ask about Raddisma or her pregnancy—which by now must have become quite visible.

"Not good," Beyazh answered. "I wish I could say otherwise, but I cannot. The thrice-damned Leaguers appear over Magor five or six times a day, blasting and burning at will. Our shelters are filled with people who have lost their homes. And for some reason, their accuracy has improved at least tenfold, even when they fire at nearly LightSpeed. Sometimes I think that they have some new kind of aiming system."

Brim bit his lip. Poor Raddisma...."Ah, how is Nabob Mustafa holding up?" he asked.

"Good of you to ask, Captain," Beyazh said. "So far, His Majesty seems to be weathering the storm well enough." He chuckled. "Why, the old rake has even fathered a child on Raddisma, his Chief Consort. You remember her, don't you?"

"Er, yes," Brim said, feeling his cheeks burn in spite of all his efforts to remain calm. "She's doing, ah, well also, one h-hopes."

"So far as I can see," Beyazh replied with a gruff chuckle. "She's the size of a house, yet she is still one of the most beautiful women I have seen anywhere in the galaxy. Mustafa keeps her hidden in the deepest shelters during the raids. The old boy seems quite proud of his accomplishment." He laughed.

"You'd think he'd done the whole thing by himself,"

Brim swallowed hard. "Y-yes," he agreed, feeling his face flush even more, "he's c-certainly had some help in that department."

Even as he spoke, the Helmsmen sounded an alert and the Imperial launch was quickly on its way to Early Warning Station 19, orbiting nearly a thousand c'lenyts above the planet Avalon.

Compared to the huge FleetPort satellites that based whole squadrons of starships and their crews, the BKAEW station was not much more than a dust mote in space. Consisting of four small globes joined into a four-sided structure by connecting tubes, the little satellite was dwarfed by a huge parabolic antenna formed of Queldon mesh and pierced by a complex array of directional KA'PPA emitters, the latter developed in secret during a crash project at the distinguished Allied Radiation Center research laboratories on Proteus, the science planet. Brim had noticed the little orbiter a number of times on his way to and from patrol, but had never had occasion to pass closely enough to observe details.

After a silky-smooth docking at the globe directly behind the large parabolic antenna—Onrad's Helmsmen had to be good, Brim considered—they entered the structure through a long, transparent tube that served as both vestibule and brow. In the background, Proteus's disk was divided nearly in half by light and darkness, and to port the Triad blazed forth at full radiance. In the golden brilliance, Brim could see that each of the station's four globes was equipped with a single boarding tube that could accommodate two small space vehicles. Three other moored shuttles were visible, while a tiny HSTS (Hyperspeed Torpedo Scout) occupied the second set of mooring optics on their own tube. Four figures in battlesuits stood at rigid attention on the deck of the deadly scout ship, which consisted of little more than a Drive crystal surrounded by five 533-mmi torpedo tubes, all contained within a stiletto-shaped hull whose mostly transparent nose of Hyperscreen crystal housed its crew of four. A brace of forward-firing, superfocused 225-mmi disruptors protruded from winglets on either side of the bow, completing an armament package all out of proportion to the ship's actual size. Onrad and Beyazh stopped for a moment to return the salute through the transparent walls, then Onrad himself led the way inside, with the station master—a nearsighted wisp of a Commander named Ismay who was clearly more comfortable in the sheltered confines of a lab—following as if he were the one who had arrived for a tour.

"That's Onrad," Brim whispered with a grin. "Just as if he'd been here a hundred times before."

"Emperors always know where they're going," Aram whispered back. "Don't they?"

Brim rolled his eyes toward the top of the tube. "I shall forever hope they do," he said in mock reverence.

"So shall I," Aram chuckled. He clearly meant it.

Inside, the BKAEW station seemed cramped, as it should with walls as thickly armored as the bridge of a heavy cruiser. Brim and Aram were the last ones into the scanning chamber and just in time to hear one of the operators inform Onrad that forty Leaguer attack ships had just slowed out of HyperSpace and were approaching from nightward. As wild patterns of multicolored data flowed over the large master display, Brim watched the ship's progress and visualized unflappable controllers in distant filter centers calling up Starfuries and Defiants to meet them. Within cycles, strong forces of Imperial defenders began to appear at the edges of the display and converge on the incoming Leaguers.

Brim watched Onrad monitoring the developing battle with intent concentration. After a few more clicks, he began to shake his head in rapt, clearly emotional silence while his eyes actually filled with tears.

"Are you feeling all right, Your Highness?" Ismay asked.

With obvious effort, the Emperor nodded. "Yes, Ismay. I'm all right. Just please don't speak for a moment. I have seldom been so moved in all my life." After that, he watched in silence, listening to the whispered undertones of the operators as they worked their displays. Finally, after watching the battle for what must have been at least five cycles, he sighed and shook his head. "Never," he rumbled to Ismay, "in any field of mortal conflict—has so much been owed to so few by so many."

The words burned in Brim's mind. Onrad had personally been out there in the heat of battle—he'd seen trusted friends blasted into particles and die screaming for air in ripped-open battlesuits. And because of it, he was one of the few Emperors in history who could actually feel what things were all about. Intrinsically, he understood the effects his pronouncements would have. Brim had always trusted that the man would be a fine Emperor; it was times like this he felt he knew why....

Scant moments later, a whole squadron of GA 87B Zachtwagers took advantage of the confused situation to attack the BKAEW site itself, and Brim instantly discovered one of the most terrifying aspects of duty aboard the new early-warning stations. The station occupants got to actually watch the plot as League warships zeroed in on their particular satellite. And there was no way to shoot back!

"Great Universe, Onrad," Beyazh gasped in apparent fascination, "what a party! There's the whole bloody League Fleet out there, except for Hoth Orgoth himself, and I wouldn't be surprised to hear his voice on the COMM channels!"

But despite the Ambassador's bravery—or was it ignorance? —tension began to mount in the crowded control room as it became evident that the station itself was to be the target.

"I think it would be a good idea," Ismay warned calmly, "if everyone donned his helmet. Now!"

No stranger to the hazards of war in space, Brim had gotten into his clicks before the man's warning, and was activating its seals when the first attack arrived in the form of a direct hit on one of the two power globes. The whole structure juddered violently, pulsing local gravity and knocking everyone from his feet. Brim ground his teeth in surprise. How in xaxt had the Leaguers managed a direct hit with the first salvo. They'd hardly slowed below LightSpeed, yet their shooting was... magnificent—no other word would do. Less than a click later, a second disrupter salvo smashed home with terrific concussion, shutting down all the displays in blinding flashes of light. And so far as he could discern, the Leaguers had fired no more than a dozen salvos. For two direct hits! Yet they'd passed at such velocity that their targeting systems couldn't have had a chance to take effect....

A third, more distant hit smashed home with a terrible creaking and groaning as if one of the spheres had been torn away completely. The local gravity pulsed violently, then faded, throwing the occupants of the chamber around like rag dolls, caroming off the walls and cabinets in a horrible confusion of arms, legs, and smashed furniture. The voice circuits filled with a cacophony of screaming fright and pain. And in the midst of this utter chaos, still another hit ripped a great crack in the armored shell of the control room, decompressing the chamber with an atmospheric explosion that carried whole consoles—with their operators—into the blackness of space itself. Brim found himself plastered against a curved surface beside a light fixture that once must have been the ceiling of the scanning chamber. Beside him, Emperor Onrad shook his head inside his battlesuit with a bloody bruise on his forehead. By the dim glow of a battle lantern, he could see Aram's wings spasmodically fluttering inside his special battlesuit jacket, clearly stunned though just as clearly alive. But where was...? "Beyazh!" he yelled over the voice circuits. "Where the xaxt are you?"

"Over here," the Ambassador answered, his words cut off by someone vomiting noisily in her helmet. Brim whirled to see an arm waving feebly from beside the crumpled remains of a display console—only irals from the great ragged fissure, through which the little HSTS could be seen bobbing at the end of a single mooring beam that had somehow managed to remain powered. Its four crewmen, protected only by their battlesuits, could never have survived the blasts, but the ship appeared to be undamaged. Turning quickly to the Emperor, he peered into the faceplate to see a brow wrinkled with absolute rage. "You all right, Your Majesty?"

"I am thraggling well NOT all right," the big man bellowed angrily. "I am bloody incensed!" He turned to Brim as still another hit landed somewhere in the structure and shook the floor, silently now that there was no air to carry sound. "I want to get those bastards!"

Brim chuckled in spite of the desperate circumstances. That was Onrad. No thought of escape or safety—he wanted to fight back!

Suddenly the Emperor glanced outside and fastened his attention on the HSTS. His brow wrinkled in thought. "Brim," he demanded, nodding toward the little ship. "Suppose you'd be willing to go after those bastards if we could?"

Another hit smashed home. "You bet I would," Brim growled. "But what'll we use to...?"

Onrad nodded toward the HSTS. "How about putting a torpedo up their bloody arses," he whispered with a smile. "Xaxtdamn better than sitting here for Leaguer target practice. Brim! D'you suppose that little ship still flies?"

Brim considered only a moment. "We won't know unless we try, Your Majesty," he said.

"Did you ever fly one?" Onrad demanded,

"At the Sherrington plant, Your Majesty," Brim replied with a nod. "A number of times."

"For Voot's sake, Brim," Onrad bellowed, sending the confused babble on the voice circuits into absolute silence, "drop the thraggling 'Your Majesty' for a while. If that little ship'll fly, you're in charge. Got that?"

"I'll try, Your... er... All right. We go. Aram!" he yelled. "You hear all that?"

"Aye, Captain," the A'zurnian replied weakly. "I'm ready."

"Good," Brim said. "You're in the right seat. Oodam. What shape are you in?"

"Mad as a soaked Rothcat," the Ambassador roared. "Let's get the bastards. In my day, I was a damn fine torpedoman."

"I'll take the disrupter," Onrad rumbled. "I'm a xaxt of a shot."

Brim glanced around the ruined chamber. There was nothing any of them could do here. And the Leaguers seemed to have temporarily broken off their attack. "Let's get started then," he yelled, "before the bastards have another go at us." Pulling himself hand over hand in the lack of gravity, he started for the new exit the Leaguers had provided.

Outside, the little station was a shambles. One of the globes was utterly gone; the only clues to its previous existence were the jagged ends of three connecting tubes. Another globe blazed with the hellish, coruscating light of a radiation fire. The monster antenna system was crooked off at a hopeless angle, and it was only too obvious that no warnings would come from Station Ventnor for a long time to come.

Pulling their way along handholds set into the walls of the brow, the four could see their Imperial shuttle had also been wrecked as well. The HSTS had survived by good fortune alone, miraculously sheltered by the brow itself from the blast that had shattered the scanning chamber wall. In relation to Brim, it was floating stern outward and upside down, anchored by a single emergency mooring beam that must have activated when the station's power failed. And although there was considerable flash melting over its port bow area from the blast, the little ship appeared to be in a relatively good condition. Her unfortunate crew, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Brim turned to Aram as they reached the end of the brow. "How does it look to you?" he asked, taking his emergency lifeline from its packet on his battlesuit. He activated its anchor end, watched it self-test successfully, and slammed it smartly against the side of the tube.

After a long pause, the A'zurnian laughed grimly and attached his own emergency lifeline. "Well, right now, anything looks better than playing target for a bunch of thraggling Leaguers."

Brim nodded, wondering how long they had before the Leaguers returned to finish their job. "I'll check it out, then," he said. "Your Maj...er, Onrad. Oodam, wait here with Aram while I go have a look. No sense trapping us all out there if it's got damage we can't see from here."

"Right," Onrad agreed.

With that, Brim pushed off across nothingness toward the HSTS, landing feetfirst between the dorsal torpedo tubes beside the open bridge hatch. From his new vantage point, the space station was now directly overhead with his three companions appearing to protrude horizontally from the curved wall.

It was precisely the reason why a local "up" was always established in relation to any large space object.

People simply worked better that way. Ignoring a momentary feeling of vertigo, he forced his orientation to the ship itself and started down the ladder, feeling local gravity take hold as his boots reached the third rung. After that, things became a lot easier. He motioned to Aram to follow and continued into the little starship as its automatic proximity alert sent alarms to his helmet.

"Unidentified targets approaching at high speed; ETA in four point five one cycles," the voice warned. "Unidentified targets approaching at high speed; ETA in four point five one cycles."

They needed to be on their way quickly!

On the cramped little control bridge, Brim immediately ran a systems verification: everything shipshape except for some mooring elements damaged by the Leaguer blasts. Then, popping his torso out of the hatch, he motioned the other three to board. "On the double!" he shouted into the voice circuit. "We've got more visitors."

By the time they scrambled aboard, he had connected power to the main bus and was watching the remainder of the readout panel come alive with flowing patterns of color. "Looks like she'll fly," he said as Aram thumped breathlessly into the systems seat beside him.

The A'zurnian ran his own sequence from the systems console. "She'll fly," he acknowledged tensely, "but the gravs took some damage. They're down to the last redundant control elements."

Onrad chuckled over the voice circuits. "Not to worry," he said. "You're safe as long as you stick with me. Emperors never get killed in combat. Besides," he added, winking from his faceplate, "I'm a crack shot with these disruptors which"—he paused momentarily—"have just completed all their diagnostics."

"Target ETA in one point five one cycles."

The deck trembled under their feet as Brim spun up both gravs at the same time—ignoring vociferous complaints from the power system. "Sounds good to me," he said presently. "Oodam, how about the torpedoes?"

"All five check out with no problems, Wilf."

"Target ETA in point five cycles."

"Everyone set?" Brim queried. He called up energize on the control panel and directed it to propulsion just as the proximity alarm sent a shrill screech into each of their helmets.

"Go!" replied three voices in unison.

The gravs caught immediately; Brim swiped the lone mooring beam into oblivion and eased the little starship away from the ruined brow. As the distance increased, a number of figures in battlesuits appeared at the crack in the side of the globe waving their arms in the universal sign of "Good Hunting!" then dodged back behind the shelter of the wrecked sphere's wall.

With proximity alarms shrill in his ears, Brim simply mashed the thrust damper to maximum output and pivoted the nose up and around its pitch axis, skidding to within a few irals of the wrecked station before the little starship reversed course and shot off directly into the face of the Leaguers. Not a moment later, the station disappeared behind them in three brilliant discharges of energy followed by the blurred images of three Zachtwager attack ships. Three more direct hits in no more than a dozen shots, yet the Leaguers passed with such speed they couldn't possibly have taken time to fire after slowing from LightSpeed. How the xaxt had they done that!

Cranking the HSTS around a second time, he took off in pursuit, heedless of the enemy's sudden—devastating—prowess with their disrupters. "Let's get the bastards!" he yelled with blood lust coursing into his veins. "Oodam, I'll need torpedo tubes one and two."

Two small icons as an overhead panel turned from red to green. "Done," Beyazh declared.

Pushing the HSTS to maximum acceleration, Brim planned to overhaul the Leaguers as they circled in for a second attack, firing across the tangent of their curve, but instead the two Zachtwagers continued to accelerate in a straight line toward the 'Wyckean Void, and opening their Drive doors, sped quickly into Hyperspace. "Gorksroar!" he cursed, but his voice was drowned out by the proximity alarm with another indication of targets approaching from aft and clearly heading toward the damaged BKAEW station. Hauling the little ship around in a semicircle, he lined up on the Leaguers' predicted path. "All right, Oodam," he said into the voice circuits, "there's two more of the zukeeds. Do you have 'em?"

The Ambassador hesitated for only a moment. "Got "em," he declared. "Coming on the target display now. Two more Zachtwagers. And from the way they're moving, they've just come out of HyperSpace. Hold 'er steady for a moment. I'll have to really lead the bastards...."

After what seemed like ten million Standard Years, a brilliant flash just above Brim's console dimmed the Hyperscreens for a moment. A second followed close on its heels. As the view cleared, Brim could see the torpedoes streaking out into the darkness at the head of glowing trails of gravitons that vanished quickly as they appeared. Only after a few moments did he glimpse the Zachtwagers streaking in from starboard, no more than glowing motes against the starry sky, flying straight and level with the calm assurance that no Imperial starships were in the area.

Abruptly the closest Zachtwager burst into a roiling puffball of radiation flame. At the same time, its partner skidded to starboard, throwing a tremendous wave of gravitons forward as its gravity generators were reversed, slowing—but not stopping— the angular ship along its flight path. Then, in the blinking of an eye, the, graviton plume reappeared at its stem, and the Leaguer began to accelerate once more, this time at an oblique angle away from the station.

"Great Helmsmanship!" Brim exclaimed. "He dodged it!"

"After the bastard!" Onrad bellowed in frustration. "We're s'posed to kilt Leaguers, Brim, not admire 'em."

"Right!" Brim said, sending full military power to the gravs. He put the helm over hard and followed the Leaguers out across the 'Wyckean Void toward Effer'wyck. "Beyazh! Ready tubes three and four," he yelled.

"Ready, Wilf," the Fluvannian said tensely as two more icons blended from red to green.

Now, he had to gain enough on the Leaguer ship for Beyazh to make an angle shot, Torpedoes were notoriously inaccurate and short of range when fired directly into a graviton exhaust. Fortunately, in spite of the HSTS's limited performance below LightSpeed, GA 87s were even more limited. Named Zachtwagers, or "precision shooters" by developers at Gantheisser, GA 87s were awkward-looking, angular starships that mounted three enormous forward-firing 483-mmi single-shot disruptors as main armament and a pair of movable 30-mmi disruptors firing aft. The ships were used mostly for ground attack. Sent in prototype form to Fluvanna for evaluation during the League's pre-war attempt to capture the important little dominion, the GA 87 found little opposition from the poorly equipped local forces (except the rare Starfuries of the IVG, when they invariably suffered disastrously). As a result, the type's performance was seriously overrated and few changes were made to the design before they were placed into mass production. Even during the early wartime campaigns, GA 87s proved able to blast their way through brief campaigns against Korbu, Gannat, and A'zurn with relative ease. This furthered their reputation to an extent far in excess of actual abilities. However, against high-performance starships like Starfuries and Defiants, GA 87s quickly showed themselves to be slow and poorly armed, proving easy targets for the powerful killer ships currently operating with the Imperial Fleet's Defense Command.

Only moments after Brim and his improbable crew gave chase, the Leaguers opened up with their rear-firing 30-mmi. DR81 disruptors. Onrad quickly joined in with ranging shots from the HSTS's big 225-mmi, disrupter. But when the Hyperscreens cleared, the Leaguers were surrounded by the glowing halo of Gandom's v effect and heading for HyperSpace with all the thrust their Drive crystals could provide.

"We've got 'em now," Brim said, keying open the Drive exhaust. At the same time, he switched main-bus power to the little ship's Drive crystal. With a deep rumble that vibrated every component of the HSTS's stout little hull, the crystal came alive and the starscape outside began wobbling and shimmering as normal photon light blended to an angry red kaleidoscope dial brought space itself to a wilderness of shifting, multicolored sparks, the Daya-Peraf transition. Brim shut off the laboring gravity generator—it wouldn't be needed until they had returned to HypoLight speeds—and watched while the Hyperscreen panels synchronized with the Drive. Then, vision cleared ahead, returning to the full majesty of galactic space—and the Zachtwager now trailed by a whirling green wake, its Hyperspace shock wave bleeding off mass and negative time in accordance with the complex system of Travis Physics that ruled flight above LightSpeed. As he had planned, he was now on a parallel path with the Leaguers, offset about six points to port.

After glancing aft to check his own Drive plume, the Carescrian trimmed ship for maximum velocity and sent more power to the crystal. They were soon overtaking the Leaguers at a much higher rate of change, and the GA 87 began laying down a deadly barrage of energy from its rear-firing disrupters. Onrad put a stop to the latter with a quick barrage of disrupter fire that must have resulted in considerable damage despite the extreme range.

"How's that for a worthless figurehead?" Onrad crowed.

"A xaxt of a shot!" Beyazh said, his voice filled with awe. "Those zukeeds are a long way off."

"See, Wilf?" Aram quipped. "I always said Emperors must be worth something," eliciting a howl of mock protest from Onrad.

"I'll never question you again," Brim chuckled grimly, then ground his teeth. Ahead, the peripheral stars of Effer'wyck were already beginning to define themselves as brighter entities against the general glow of the galactic center. He turned in his seat to face Beyazh. "Oodam," he said, "let's finish the Leaguer off quickly and head back. We're getting a long way from Avalon."

"Less than a cycle from now, and counting," Beyazh assured him.

Brim nodded and returned to his controls. Each click passed like a Standard Year of trouble, and at a velocity of nearly 26M LightSpeed, they were penetrating enemy-controlled space at an alarming rate. If the Leaguers had anything at all like BKAEW—and he was certain they did—alarms would soon be going of all along the Effer'wyckean frontier, "They're in range...." Beyazh said tensely. "Hold 'er steady."

The fleeing Gantheisser was now a quarter-on silhouette, little more than six c'lenyts distant.

"Steady...."

Brim was so intent on his controls that when the tubes actually fired, he nearly started out of his Helmsman's console. Especially when Beyazh had excitedly keyed the torpedoes before he yelled...

"Fire!"

"Thanks a thraggling bunch, Mr. Ambassador," Onrad grumped shakily.

"Yeah," Aram added. "You kind of got the drill backward, didn't you?"

"Sorry," Beyazh whispered sheepishly. "But look," he exclaimed, pointing through the forward Hyperscreens, "in spite of my poor procedure, I have indeed scored another hit!"

The fleeing Gantheisser was suddenly enshrouded by a scintillating halo of purplish light with a bright red core than grew rapidly, changing shape and color until like a gigantic puffball, it caved in on itself and collapsed to a few sparkling shards.

And before the last remnant of the Leaguer ship winked out among the stars, Brim had reversed course and was heading back toward Avalon with the Drive crystal still at top speed.

"Scratch one more Gantheisser!" Onrad said happily. "Now this is a xaxt of a lot better than playing target, wouldn't you say, gentlemen?"

"Damn straight!" Beyazh exclaimed.

"Brim," Onrad ordered. "We'll enjoy a bit of the most Logish Meem I can find in the palace when we get this little bucket of bolts back to Avalon! Damned if I haven't dreamed of somehow getting into this war...."

"Oh, Gorksroar!" Brim whispered between his teeth.

"Gorksroar?" Onrad demanded. "What Gorksroar?"

At that moment, the proximity alarm went off again.

"That Gorksroar," Brim replied grimly, pointing up and aft where two big GH 262-Es were driving in at high speed for a kill in such close formation their "wings" overlapped port to starboard. The yellow tips of their chevron-shaped starships marked them as a couple of veteran warriors for certain.

"Voot's vermin-filled beard," Onrad growled. "I should have thraggling known...."

"Beyazh," Brim yelled, hauling in the little ship's helm. "Get that last torpedo ready. NOW!"

Moments later, the last torpedo icon changed to green. "Now," Brim warned, holding up his hand, "we're not going to fire this one. Instead, we're going to jettison it."

"Jettison?" Beyazh exclaimed. "An armed torpedo?"

"Yeah," Brim said through clenched teeth; the Leaguers were catching up fast, "but set the fuse for proximity—at about five hundred irals."

"A space mine!" the Fluvannian whispered. "Of course."

"If they'll just hold off firing a few more clicks," Brim grunted, his eyes glued to the aft view display. The bastards had to be just where he wanted them. "Ready..." he warned. A whir behind the aft bulkhead told him that the number five torpedo-loading hatch was open. The Leaguers were nearly on top of him—doubtlessly arguing about who would get to fire first. He darned not wait another moment....

"Let 'er go!" he bellowed, then shoved the thrust dampers into military overload and cranked the little starship around in the tightest turn he could manage without bending the hull....